He walked back toward the tent, leaving Harry alone under a scatter of cold stars.
Harry hesitated, then took the mug. The tea was sweet and strong. It tasted like someone’s kitchen — not a castle’s, not a feast’s. Just a kitchen. A normal one.
He didn’t go there. He went to the lake instead.
Harry stared at him. “A scone?”
The water was black glass. The Durmstrang ship sat moored like a drowned bone. Harry sat on a flat rock and pulled his knees to his chest.
Harry nearly fell in. Cedric Diggory emerged from behind a yew tree, looking annoyingly calm in his Hufflepuff pajamas, a steaming mug in his hand.
Harry stayed a few more minutes, then headed back. He didn’t feel brave. He didn’t feel ready.
The tent was huge — silk panels embroidered with magical beasts, braziers burning low blue flames. But the other three Champions weren’t there. Fleur’s sleeping area was sealed with a shimmering charm; Krum’s side smelled of salt and iron; Cedric’s hammock swayed empty, probably off walking the edge of the Forbidden Forest again.
“No,” Harry said. “I didn’t.”
They sat in silence for a long while. The lake lapped softly. Somewhere in the distance, a dragon roared — low, rumbling, like an earthquake with lungs.
Cedric stood up, took his empty mug back, and said, “Tomorrow, when that dragon looks at you — don’t think about winning. Think about flying.”